One Hundred Words: BDS
by somehowunbroken
Summary: One hundred 100word drabbles, some canon, some not... all BDS, though. Rating for adult language and themes. Should be read in order; some later ones refer to earlier ones, just some details that won't make sense out of order.
1. Chapter 1

So this is a new challenge that I've set for myself. I've asked my sister - another avid BDS fan, as well as my beta - to come up with a hundred random words. Each of these words is the basis for a hundred-word drabble related to BDS, and it has to include that word. Some of these are canon; some are not. This may turn out to be crap, or it may be one of the neatest things I've done in a while... I have yet to decide.

Warning: these are MY Connor and Murphy and the rest of the gang. Rocco loves vanilla and raw onions. Connor's favorite color is orange. Murphy likes to draw. Please, deal with my quirks as they transfer to the characters. There is some character death. You may see the twins as youngsters. You may read a story completely about a minor character. There are OCs. Since there are a hundred of them, if you don't like one of the stories, skip it and move on.

They'll be posted in ten-word chapters. Please read, review and, most of all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Yeah, I wish I were genius enough to come up with BDS on my own... sigh.

* * *

_1. Stegosaurus_

"What the fuck is that?" Connor's voice rang disbelievingly through the small flat.

Murphy crossed his arms defensively in front of him. "It's a coloring book."

Connor's eyebrow raised. "Why?"

"Because it's stress-relieving," Murphy said.

"Stress-relieving," Connor snorted. Then, "Is that a blue stegosaurus?"

"So?" Murphy shot back. "You used to color the whole fucken book orange, remember?"

"I was _four_," Connor said mildly. "Orange was my favorite color."

"Well, blue's _my_ favorite color," Murphy huffed, picking the crayon back up. He paused, picked up the orange crayon, offered it to Connor.

"Not enough orange in this book. Help me?"

_2. Muffin_

They woke in time for breakfast about once a month. Usually it was Murphy who made them miss their morning meal, since he hated to wake any earlier than was necessary. But this morning, he had been up before Connor and was ready to leave the apartment before his brother had awoken.

"Why are you so eager to get out the door this morning?" Connor asked.

"I have this craving," Murphy muttered, walking quickly towards the diner.

"A craving," Connor repeated, disbelieving, as the two walked in the door. "For what?"

Murphy sat at their table. "Corn muffin," he said.

_3. Luau_

"I don't want to go, Murph."

"Aw, why not?"

Connor shifted on the sofa. "I just want to stay here tonight. I don't feel like going out."

Murphy stared at his brother in disbelief. "You don't want to go out? It's Mardi Gras, Connor! Beads! Luaus! Drinking!" He paused. "Free drinking, actually."

Connor looked at Murphy from his seat on the sofa. "Free beer?" At Murphy's nod, he gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. "Let's go to your luau, then."

Murphy smiled brilliantly at his brother as they walked out the door. "You won't regret it," he said. "I promise."

_4. Vanilla_

"Vanilla ice cream, Connor?" Murphy's disembodied voice came from the bowels of the freezer. "Why would you get fucken vanilla ice cream? You don't like it, I don't like it, so what the fuck?"

Connor was silent, hands clenched, eyes closed, as he sat on the sofa. Murphy pulled his head out of the freezer to stare, wondering why his brother wasn't responding to his questioning. Taunting. Whatever.

"Well?" Murphy prompted. "The fuck, Conn? Why the vanilla when we're both chocolate men? Or rocky road," he added a bit dreamily.

"It was Rocco's," Connor said softly, pained. "Rocco loved vanilla."

_5. Friday_

Friday is Connor and Murphy's favorite day of the week. They have Saturdays and Sundays off, so Friday night is reserved for anything that they want to do. Usually, they just go on down to McGinty's, and this particular Friday is no different.

They walk through the door in time to hear uproarious laughter and find a confused-looking Doc standing behind the counter.

"Honestly, Doc, you need to look up some new metaphors," Rocco said between gasps of laughter. "This pick-and-choose shit is gonna be the death of me."

"I don't doubt it," Connor grinned as he took his Friday-night-seat.

_6. Echo_

It echoes in here, was Murphy's first thought as he and Connor walked into their new flat. Three days in America, and the locals at the bar had pointed them to this building, told them that there was an empty spot on the top floor, if they didn't mind climbing the stairs when the lift broke.

They didn't mind. It wasn't much, as they saw when they walked through the door, but a few weeks' worth of money plus what they had brought from home would buy enough to fill the emptiness – _so it doesn't echo anymore_, Murphy thought, satisfied.

_7. Stellar_

"Y'know what," Rocco declared drunkenly, "my favorite word is?"

Connor, who was no better off than Rocco, snorted. "Lemme guess… fuck?"

Rocco tried to glare, couldn't pick the right Connor to glare at, gave up. "No. My favorite word-" here, a pause for dramatic effect "-is 'stellar.'"

This sent Murphy into a fit of giggles. "Of all the words in the English language, you pick fucken 'stellar' as your favorite?"

Connor grinned. "Aye, Roc," he agreed. "Why'd you pick 'stellar'?"

Rocco gave a toothy grin. "Because," he replied, "as words go – it's pretty stellar," he finished, obviously proud of himself.

_8. Victor_

"There is no fucken way I'm gonna play," Murphy declared to Connor's suggestion that they play a board game to pass the time. The fourteen-year-old glared at his brother.

"Why not?" Connor returned, holding Scrabble to his chest. "We can play Language Scrabble. You like that one," he bargained, referring to playing in any language that they knew, and sometimes in all those languages.

"But you always win, no matter what we play!" Murphy exclaimed. "Let's play cards. I want to win. I want to be the victor for once, okay? I can win at cards."

"Fine," Connor huffed. "Poker."

_9. Pamphlet_

The pamphlet doesn't look like much, and Murphy shoves it back into his pocket before Connor can see the bedraggled piece of paper. It had been pushed under the door when the twins had arrived home earlier, and Connor had trampled right over it without thinking.

"What ye got there, Murph?" Connor's voice asks, and Murphy jumps, guilty, and pulls the crumpled flyer from his pocket.

"Nothing," he mumbles, pushing the paper towards Connor, who just laughs when he realizes what it is.

"Murph, if ye want to get Chinese for dinner, just tell me," Connor says, and Murphy smiles.

_10. Monitor_

Connor can't look up, can't glance at the monitor over his brother's head with its steady _blip blip blip_ that, for now at least, signifies that Murphy is still in there somewhere. Instead he holds his brother's hand and waits for some sort of sign.

_Please Murph please God please please please_ is all that he can think as he sits, day in day out, waiting for – well, anything, really.

He won't give up hope until that monitor stops its beeping, and Connor just _knows_ that Murphy is still –

He feels a squeeze on his hand.

"Hey," Murphy says softly.


	2. Chapter 2

New chapter, record time for me! Yay me! Unfortunately, after Sunday updates will not be so speedy... spring break will be over, and I'll lose my internet access :( Enjoy... and let me know which is your favorite!_  
_

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_11. Pink_

Duffy has a secret.

He _loves_ horrendous ties.

Seriously, the weirder or grosser the tie, the more Duffy loves it. Smecker once asked him if he let a blind man or a color blind seven-year-old pick out his ties for him. Duffy had glared at the FBI agent before stalking off, muttering under his breath that his ties were not _ugly_, thank you, they just had _character_, which was more than anyone could say for Smecker's own… _matching_ ties.

So when he spots the pink-and-yellow tie in the store as he's walking through, he picks it up.

_This'll annoy Smecker._

_12. Secret_

Doc has a secret that he has never told a soul: he was a ballroom dancer in his youth.

Not just any dancer, either; Doc was in competitions with his wife, Aileen, until the early eighties, when she was diagnosed with cancer. The foxtrot had been their specialty, and the McGintys had been nearly world-class.

Until Aileen was diagnosed, that is. Until Aileen got sick. Until Aileen died, four months later.

Doc has another secret. He hasn't done the foxtrot since the last dance he did with Aileen, right after she was diagnosed.

And another. He wants to dance again.

_13. Century_

The McManus family has a history of violence in God's name.

Aidan McManus, 1899: An argument near a church gets out of hand. Aidan beats a man to within an inch of his life for insulting his family's faith in the Lord.

Daodín McManus, 1943: Daodín hears that God's Chosen are being targeted and picks up a gun to free them.

Padráig McManus, 1974: A man leaves his family in Ireland with an ancient family prayer.

1999: A century after their great-great-grandfather began God's war, Connor and Murphy McManus pick up their guns and bring God's enemies to his justice.

_14. Quarter_

Connor was looking for Murphy, wondering how his brother could get lost in the time it took Connor to get up and use the gents'. He sighed, exasperated, finally spotting Murphy at the front of the diner, playing with a twenty-five-cent machine.

Murphy was the very model of concentration as Connor approached, using a stick to maneuver a metal claw and pressing a button to drop it into the prize bin. Connor's eyes crinkled as he saw that his brother was trying to pick up a small Scooby Doo doll – Connor's favorite cartoon. Murphy missed, frowned, turned.

"Got a quarter?"

_15. Cheer_

"Fucken Christmas cheer," Murphy growled as the twins walked down South Boston's snow-covered Marine Road. "'m sick of all of these fucken plastic Santas and snowmen and glitter."

Connor coughed. "Sure not like home," he agreed. "It makes me miss the way we used to do Christmas."

"Aye," agreed Murphy. "Ma'd have a fucken heart attack if she thought we had a giant plastic Santa in our apartment."

Both men stopped walking, grins on both faces as the evil idea took root.

--

_Ma, Hope Christmas was great. Here's a picture of our Christmas._

Annabelle's shriek brought her neighbors running.

_  
16. Sketch_

Connor stormed around the small flat, muttering darkly under his breath. He was holding a bag and indiscriminately shoving items inside, or so it seemed to Murphy.

"What're ye doing?" Murphy asked, a bit cautiously.

"Cleaning," came the short answer. A pause, then, "What's this?" Connor held up a penciled drawing of himself, sitting at McGinty's, laughing as a cigarette hung from his lips.

"A sketch," Murphy said, saving the paper from Connor and his "cleaning." "I drew it last week, after we came home."

"It's really good, Murph," Connor said appreciatively. Then, mischievously –

"Let's hang it on the refrigerator."

_  
17. Music_

Murphy wakes to the sound of his own breathing, harsh in his ears. He's had another dream, another nightmare, another –

But then he glances to the empty twin bed beside him, and it all comes crashing down.

He's gone, Connor's dead and buried and gone, and Murphy is utterly, utterly alone. Never again will he see the beauty of his brother's face, hear the music of his voice, feel the comforting touch of Connor's hand on his elbow after a job gone right or wrong.

_Alone, alone,_ his mind taunts him, and Murphy sinks down into his bed and cries.

_18. Choice_

"Why do we do this, Conn?"

Connor blinked. "What do ye mean?"

Murphy looked tiredly at his brother. "What do ye think I mean? This. The whole… everything."

Connor stared. "We were Called, Murph. We don't have a choice. We're doing the Lord's work."

"I know that," Murphy said, exhaustion evident in his voice. "I just… wish we _did_ have a choice, y'know?"

"Would you choose not to?"

Murphy blinked, shook his head _no_, nodded. Confused, distracted. "I don't know, Conn. I really just wish I had a say in it, is all."

Connor nodded. "Aye, Murph, I do know."

_19. Birthday_

The birthday question always brings up an interesting conversation with the twins.

"What's your birthday?" someone would ask, and one twin would say "May fourth" as the other said "May fifth." Confused looks would follow, as if asking _can't they remember which?_

They would continue, explaining that though Ma wouldn't tell them which was born first, they knew that one of them had been born at 10:48 PM on May fourth, and the other "stubborn little pain in me arse had waited until 6:13 the following morning to wiggle his damn way out."

It was always good for a laugh.

_20. Manage_

"I'll be back in twenty minutes," Connor said as he put his coat on. "Think you can manage without me?"

"I'll be fide," Murphy responded from under his mountain of blankets. The flu had caught the McManus brothers unawares, making Connor sick before passing on to Murphy. "Just bring me some tissues wif lotion in them. These ones –" he pointed to the tissues on the table "-feel like shite on by poor dose."

"I'll pick some up," Connor said; still tired, still achy, but always willing to do anything to make Murphy feel even just a little bit better.


	3. Chapter 3

_21. Marriage_

"Have ye ever thought about marriage?"

Connor's eyes opened. His twin lay across the room, but in the semi-darkness, fifteen-year-old Connor could see him quite clearly.

"What're ye on about?"

Murphy shrugged and Connor sensed rather than saw it. "Do ye think you'll ever get married?"

It was Connor's turn to shrug. "To tell ye the truth, Murph, I don't think either of us will marry," he said softly. "I think we're meant for bigger things."

A lifetime later, these words echoing in his ears, Connor closed his eyes and said a prayer before setting out to do God's work.

_22. Whipped Cream_

"Mmmm," Murphy moaned, licking the whipped cream from his spoon. Connor looked up at his brother, wished that he were surprised, then looked back to his cup of coffee.

The twins were at the diner, treating themselves to some actual food (as opposed to the liquid kind). Murphy had wanted ice cream, but Connor had counted their money carefully and realized that they couldn't get any if they were going to be able to pay their bill and tip the waitress.

So Murphy, being Murphy, had asked for a dish of whipped cream and sprinkles.

"Free dessert," he pronounced joyously.

_23. Hanukkah _

Connor sat at the bar. Well, "sat" was an overstatement – perhaps "slumped" would be a more appropriate term. His twin was, for once, nowhere to be seen. Connor had been there for two hours. Murphy hadn't been there in two hours. Doc was, not for the first time, stumped by the twins.

"Where's that tw-tw-tw-brother of yours?" he asked Connor.

"He's not coming tonight," Connor slurred. "'e's mad a' me."

"I wo-wo-won't ask, then," Doc said, refilling Connor's glass.

"'m out of cash, Doc," Connor said. Doc shook his head.

"H-h-happy Hanukkah," Doc said. "You look l-like you need it."

_24. Love_

Connor ducks, avoids the punch meant for his face, throws himself at his assailant. The six-year-old's anger is nearly tangible. The boy he is fighting is two, three times his size, but Connor's anger is making the older boy rethink his decision.

Suddenly a smaller, darker form flies into the fight, and Murphy and Connor are fighting Aidan together, until the older boy cries uncle and staggers off to nurse his wounds.

Murphy turns to Connor. "What did he do?"

Connor glared at Aidan's back. "Said you were a baby," he fumed. "I love you too much to let him."

_25. Moon_

The moon was bright, and Connor felt cheated, as though he wanted a cloudy night for his errand.

Murphy had wanted to be buried back in Ireland, but it wasn't possible to get his body home, so Connor had returned to South Boston to at least bury him with someone he loved.

Now he stood near the fresh mound of dirt, between Rocco and Doc, hands in the pockets of his pea coat and sunglasses on his face. Connor stared at the headstone, shook his head and turned in the too-bright night, found a shadow to melt into, and left.

_26. Finale_

_This is it,_ Murphy thinks. _This is the end of the show. Our finale._

It's a fitting end for the two of them, going down in a blaze of glory. It had been a regular job, but then the cops had shown up. The ones they have killed around them are properly dispatched, but for them, there will be no coins, no crossed arms. They will pay their own way.

They turn and embrace, then back away from each other roughly. Both men begin the prayer taught to them in infancy.

Two shots ring out.

Two fall to the ground.

_27. Dance_

Watching them fight is like watching them dance. Each knows the other's moves intimately and anticipates with barely a glance. They twist towards and away from each other, bending and coiling and unwinding and just _moving_ with a grace that's nearly inhuman except, of course, for the bleeding and cursing of a pair of Irish twins.

They don't actually want to hurt each other, at least this time. This is stress relief, rather than something to settle a score. That's why tonight, it's a dance. Tonight, it's a celebration of movement, an unorchestrated ballet – a pair of fighting Irish twins.

_28. Prerogative_

Connor walked back to his table at the bar, scowling. Murphy saw his brother coming and began to laugh.

"She didn't go for it, did she?" he asked his lighter twin amusedly. "Face it, Conn, you're just not meant to charm the pants off'a the ladies like I am." He shot a devilish smile at two women and smirked triumphantly as they giggled.

"Oh, aye," Connor said sarcastically. "Mr. Suave, that's you, right. Should I go over there and tell them about Mary Connelly? That was suave, wasn't it?"

"Nothing like a woman's prerogative to kill the night," Murphy remarked.

_29. Nightmare_

He thrashed in his sheets, gasping for breath. Drowning, drowning in an endless sea of blankets and sheets and quilts. _Dead at thirteen,_ he thought. A scream tore its way from his throat _get me out get me out God please_ – and then there was his brother, ripping the sheets from his sweaty body and holding him gently.

"Nightmare?" Murphy whispered gently. Connor nodded into his twin's shoulder.

"I was drowning," he said, voice small. "I fell out of the boat and I couldn't find the surface."

"I'll dive in after you, Conn," Murphy promised. "I'll never let you drown."

_30. Ghetto_

The ghettos of South Boston are ripe with crime and therefore full of the criminals that have become the prey of the Saints. Connor and Murphy have taken to stalking through the guttered alleyways at night, guns hidden but accessible, floating through the shadows before striking, then melting into the darkness. It's not the life that Ma had wanted for them, not the life she thought they lived, not the life that would lead to grandchildren and them coming home to Ireland.

But it's the life they know, that somehow lets them sleep at night.

They are okay with this.


	4. Chapter 4

_31. Surrender_

Murphy holds his gun tightly, not quite believing the scene unfolding around him. His eyes dart around wildly, taking stock of the situation. Their marks, dead. Unfortunate witness, dead.

Connor, dead.

His hands shake as he hears voices from outside, telltale sirens nearing his location. _Come out with your hands up,_ the robotic monotone drones. _Surrender your weapon and exit the building._

_ Never give up. Never surrender._ The words come back, mocking.

_Never give up. Never surrender. _Murphy crosses Connor's arms and places pennies in his eyes.

Then he runs screaming out the door, bringing the Saints to their end.

_32. Dignity_

"Greenly, have you no dignity at all?" Smecker's voice snarled from the doorway. Greenly sighed as the FBI agent walked past his desk.

He had been searching for at least an hour. In the pen cup, in a drawer, rolled under the monitor, on the surrounding desks… but his favorite pen, a red pen with a baseball emblazoned with the Red Sox logo, was missing. Hence Greenly, on his hands and knees, rear end sticking into the air, searching under his desk.

Smecker suddenly reappeared and threw something red on Greenly's desk.

"Get your ass back in your seat, Greenly."

_33. Toxic_

Murphy slams his way across the kitchen, pours a cup of coffee, sits down. Drinks. Spits the mouthful of coffee back into the up and glars at Connor.

"This shite is toxic!" he glared. "What the fuck is in it, arsenic?"

Connor raised his eyebrows. "It from yesterday or the day before, Murph," h said. "What do ye want from me?"

Murphy frowns into the mug at the sludge that nearly killed him. "I'd like not to be poisoned by my breakfast," he pointed out.

"Make your own coffee then," Connor said as he stood. "Tomorrow. We're late for work."

_34. Fool_

"Y'look like a damn fool, Connor," Murphy said, trying not to laugh. Too much.

"I like it," Connor replied defensively. "It's warm and it's broken in."

"And it's _orange,_" Murphy continued. "What is with you and orange, anyhow?"

"It's my _favorite,_" huffed Connor indignantly. "And so what if it's orange? It's just a coat!"

"A coat which you will never wear in public, correct?" Murphy drawled, then glared as his brother refused to answer. "Never in public, Connor, right?"

Connor sighed, gave in, nodded. "Never in public."

He waited for Murphy to turn before muttering, "Not while you're around, anyway."

_35. Medicine_

The faceoff in the medicine aisle in the grocer's is of epic proportions.

One man, tall and blonde, is holding a white-and-red box. The other, dark-haired and slightly shorter, holds a green-and-yellow box.

"That isn't even _medicine_," snarls the smaller. "We have to get this one." He shakes his choice in the other's face.

"Generic doesn't mean it won't work, Murphy," Connor snaps back, heading for the register. "This one will work fine."

"But why?" Murphy whines, petulant now.

Connor smiles, knowing he's won. "We buy your box, we're down a few pints' worth of cash."

Murphy drops his box.

_36. Disaster_

This is a disaster.

Dolly knows as soon as he sees the Chief heading towards him. This is it, the end of his career, the end of everything he's worked so hard for. He'll be relieved of duty at best, probably thrown in jail for a while. The Chief must have found out about him helping the Saints, or seen him there at Yakavetta's trial.

"Detective," the Chief says as he slows next to Dolly's desk.

"Sir?" Dolly asks, trying to be casual.

"You do good work," he says, then continues in his stride.

Dolly can actually taste the relief.

_37. Torn_

Connor has never been more torn in his life.

Murphy will die tonight, without doubt. His wounds are bleeding badly and there is no doctor who would mend them without asking.

Connor's hands press into the wounds anyway, trying to stop or slow the bleeding even as he hears the sirens approach.

"Go," Murhpy gasps, eyes wide open and breath coming in ragged pants. "Go, Connor, ye moron, or I'll haunt your ass in jail. Make you more-" he gasped "-more fucken miserable."

Connor chokes on a laugh, leans to kiss his brother's forehead, and runs.

He never looks back.

_38. Bullet_

A single bullet changed the course of two men's lives.

After the bullet, they are no longer only working for God, but for Rocco.

_Never stop,_ Rocco's voice haunts them, and though they never talk about it, they both know that they have added _until you kill that bastard_ to the end of his sentence, at least in their heads.

And even after they kill Yakavetta, they don't stop. The bullet had left them with more purpose than they'd stated with. _Never stop_ became their motto, their creed.

If they never stop, maybe they can prevent another Rocco from dying.

_39. Listen_

"Listen," Smecker snaps, and instantly all are silent, straining to hear what he hears.

A breeze carries faint voices down the alley, and they unconsciously lean forward in synchrony.

"Fuck," growls Smecker. "They're early." His head whips around, and his eyes find everyone in the dark room within mere seconds. "Is everyone in place?" His whisper reaches all corners of the room and nods meet his question.

The voices are closer now, recognizable, louder. Unaware.

"On my count," Smecker breathes.

The doorknob turns.

Smecker counts and the door is open and the men are inside.

"Happy birthday, Connor and Murphy!"

_40. Gravity_

Connor laughed as he grabbed Murphy's arm. His brother's punch stopped two inches from his face. Murphy scowled.

"How do you always do that?" he asked, still scowling.

"Because you fight sloppy when you're drunk, Murph," Connor said matter-of-factly. "It's not about anger, it's about peace."

"Was _Bulletproof Monk_ on television again?" Murphy asked, citing a favorite comedy of his brother's. "You gonna start telling me that gravity only exists if I want it to?"

Connor looked solemnly at his brother. "It's not about power," he continued to quote. "It's about grace."

Murphy growled and threw himself at Connor again.

* * *

So... I'm really sorry. I forgot about this piece. If anyone's still reading it.... thanks, and I'm sorry again!


	5. Chapter 5

_41. Storm_

The storm is so loud that it wakes Connor from his sleep, and he turns automatically to Murphy, who isn't there.

Connor sits up and glances around, seeing his twin at the window. "Murph?" he calls.

"It's amazing," Murphy replies, and there is awe in his voice. "The lightning – and the thunder – it's all so, so…"

"It's just a storm," Connor says, unimpressed, and goes back to sleep.

"No," Murphy says, and he knows he's talking to himself. "It's beautiful. It's…" He pauses, confirming that Connor can't hear him. "It's a sign. From God. That we're doing all this right."

_42. Arms_

In the dream (nightmare?) he's reaching for something, but he can't quite reach it, it's not there –

- and he always wakes just before his arms wrap around it.

"What am I trying to reach?" he asks Murphy, asks Smecker, asks God.

Murphy has no answer for him and God seems to be busy listening to other people today, and Connor's dream (nightmare.) goes unanswered again.

Until Smecker speaks up. "Reaching, right? Just reaching?"

"Aye, reaching," Connor confirms, wondering if Smecker might _know_

"Peace," Smecker says, and the answer is so simple. "You'll never reach it, though. I never did."

_43. Fate_

Fate is cruel when it takes Murphy from him.

Fate is awful, and Connor stands outside in the pouring rain and screams at the skies, at Fate itself, but Fate is cruel and doesn't answer back.

Fate is cruel when Smecker is discovered, arrested, and the Boston police are too afraid to help the lone Saint. Connor is done with his screaming, so this time he just laughs bitterly and continues on.

Fate is cruel when Doc is diagnosed with cancer and dies almost immediately.

But Fate is kind when Connor can finally slip into his own eternal sleep.

Finally.

_44. Artist_

When they were younger, Ma had taken them to a man in the city, who had studied their faces and nodded. Ma handed the artist an envelope, and the confused five-year-olds bundled back into their coats to head home.

"Who was that, Ma?" Connor asked once safely in the car.

"Mr. Neill," was the curt answer. "Never you mind."

Thirty years later, Murphy pulled a framed painting of two five-year-old boys from his mother's closet. He sat back on his heels, wiping at the edge of the frame.

_Seamus Neill_, it says. And, under that, _Me boys, always with me._

_45. Weakness_

"What's your one weakness?" Rocco asked them once.

"Weakness?" Connor asked, frowning.

"Every superhero has a weakness," Rocco had replied, shrugging.

Murphy laughed. "Hardly superheroes, Roc. We're just… like…"

"Like superheroes?" Rocco filled in. "C'mon, you have to have a weakness."

"Peanut butter," suggested Connor. "I hate peanut butter."

Murphy grinned then and jumped in. "Oh, I'd say liver," he declared. "Hate the stuff."

Rocco just rolled his eyes. "You guys never take shit seriously."

Connor and Murphy were glad he let it go, because they didn't want to have to admit what their weakness was, though they knew it.

_46. Alive_

"Sometimes I think he's still alive," Murphy says into the dark, and there's no answer. "Sometimes. Not all the time, not any more, but sometimes I think if I just go back to Boston, to McGinty's, he'll be on a bar stool, having himself a beer."

The silence and the darkness are oppressive, and Murphy keeps talking, if only to separate himself from that emptiness.

"And I know that he's gone, that he's not in Boston and me here by myself, but sometimes…" He catches his breath for a moment. "Sometimes I think he's still alive."

But he never is.

_47. Overcome_

Connor is very, very silent as he steps into their small flat. He's got a small bag in his hands, and its contents are secret, sacred.

Connor eases past his snoring twin and sits at the table in their makeshift kitchen. He glances over, but Murphy's still sleeping. Good.

Connor is overcome with childish joy as he delves into the bag and pulls out the first of several cookies. Each is only a bite, but they fill his mouth with an incredible taste.

He hears a noise and looks up, seeing Murphy staring at him from the bed.

"Greedy bastard."

_48. Broken_

Tears slipped out, one by one, and Murphy let them fall. Connor had always been the stronger, more stoic one, the one thing that had held Murphy together – _but now he's dead,_ Murphy's mind rebuked harshly. _ Dead forever._

Murphy's heart wrenched. _How are you?_ Smecker had asked, and he had replied _I'm fine_ but he had meant to say _broken_, was glad he didn't have to actually say the words. Was glad that Smecker just knew and hauled his grieving body to Smecker's own apartment, where he had fallen on the couch, asleep.

_I'll fix you_, Smecker promised. _I will._

_49. Need_

"But I need to," whined five-year-old Connor. Annabelle sighed at her son, then nodded.

"Be quick," she admonished. "And take your brother!"

Connor nodded as he grabbed Murphy's arm and ran into the bar. Looking quickly for his uncle Sibeal but not finding him, Connor made a mad dash for the "employees only" part of the building.

"Uncle!" Connor yelled, and Murphy echoed. "Uncle!"

"What's wrong, me lads?" Sibeal's voice rang from the attic, alarmed. "Tell Uncle Sibeal what ye be yelling about."

Connor looked up the ladder, all puppy eyes at his uncle.

"I need ta use the bathroom!"

_50. Scars_

They have so many scars between them that they've lost count.

There are childhood scars, roadmaps to memories of games that they played with each other, with friends, with family, in a country so far away that it seems to not exist but for memories.

Then there are the scars from their line of work. God's business is a messy one, and rare is the hit where either one of the men escapes untouched. Each scar is a story, none with a happy ending.

Finally, there are the emotional scars. These are the worst of them all. These never heal.

* * *

Two at once as an extra apology. I have some of the later ones written already, so I may have more up soon.


	6. Chapter 6

_51. Rhythm_

Greenly loves to go to the club after a long day at the station, and he's pretty slick on the dance floor. The ladies love it.

Dolly goes with him occasionally, but he always sits in the corner with the drinks and rolls his eyes, secretly jealous that Greenly's got _moves_.

Duffy is a different story. Duffy loves going, as well, but they don't invite him anymore, and it's not because of the ties. Duffy has so much rhythm that the ladies flock to him instead of Greenly.

Greenly hates it, hates Duffy's rhythm, so he just asks Dolly now.

_52. Burn_

Neither Connor nor Murphy can stand the smell of burning.

It doesn't really matter what is burning – fire, toast, coffee that's been in the pot too long – because the distinct odor of anything burning reminds them of the distinct odor of burning flesh.

And Rocco.

They try not to burn things or to be around things that burn, other than their precious cigarettes, because they think of Rocco when they smell burning, and they try not to think of Rocco if they can help it.

Burning smells of failure, of failure to protect and defend, and of sadness and loss.

_53. Sport_

Sometimes they treated their so-called twin stunts as a sport for their own amusement.

Using the twin thing to impress a woman was worth differing amounts, based on the woman in question. Confusing people with their apparent mental telepathy was ten points each time, more if it was someone they continued to fool. Languages were fifteen each, aiding the other while barely knowing what was going on was thirty.

The Chekov mess was worth over two hundred points when all was said and done.

At the time, they had no idea that their lives would soon be overflowing with points.

_54. Hide_

"It's my turn to hide," Murphy says matter-of-factly, and he runs away before Connor can argue. Connor sighs theatrically to their empty room and sits on the bed to count loudly.

"I'm coming!" he yells ten seconds later, and though he looks and looks, Murphy is nowhere.

Connor hears a scream and a splash and runs to the creek, game forgotten. Murphy is flailing wildly in the deep part of the water, and Connor charges in to grab at his brother and pull him to dry land.

When they had caught their breath, Connor turned to his brother.

"Found you."

_55. Laugh_

Murphy's laugh is infectious, and even though he doesn't know why he's laughing or what's funny, Connor is laughing, too.

It starts out low, a rippling sound in his chest, and it bubbles up out of him. The sound grows and booms and stretches to fill whatever space they're in, and it seems like it couldn't possibly be coming from Murphy. He's small and the sound is so big, so boisterous, that it seems to be too big to come from him.

It takes the shadows out of his face for a moment, so it doesn't matter _why_ he laughs.

_56. Emotion_

Smecker can't conjure up any emotion at all, none, nothing, when he walks into an old warehouse and sees the McManus twins sprawled, lifeless, on the concrete floor.

It's just that he's had this dream so many times before. Now that it's real, now that Greenly and Dolly and Duffy are here seeing it with him and Greenly's crying a little and Dolly is pale and Duffy is getting sick, Smecker can't come up with anything. He's tapped, empty, spent. Done.

Smecker thinks back to a conversation he had with Connor once, a lifetime ago.

_They've finally found their peace._

_57. Enough_

_When will it be enough?_ Doc wonders as he pours another beer for another faceless customer. Since Rocco died and the twins had left, his bar had become a nothing, no regulars left, just a hole in the wall where almost nobody came and certainly nobody frequented.

Doc worries for their safety, for their sanity, for their freedom. They are far from bulletproof, and they're certainly not cop-proof. He doesn't know how to get in touch with their Ma if something happens to them. Mostly, though, he just misses them.

_When will it be enough for them to come home?_

_58. Illusion_

They knew that it couldn't really be magic. Only babies believed in magic, and they were eight now, hardly babies.

But they could not figure out how Uncle Sibeal was making the card float.

"It must be real magic," Murphy said simply after puzzling over the matter,

"It's not _magic,_" Connor replied. "It's an illusion."

"Yeah?" countered Murphy. "Can you do it?" He poked Connor in the arm. "Can you make things just fly through the air?"

Connor grinned. "Aye."

Murphy looked confused until he felt himself lifted off his feet, propelled backwards onto his bed by his laughing twin.

_59. Soul_

"Do you ever think about the words?"

Murphy's question startles Connor. He looks up from where he's cleaning his gun.

"The prayer."

"Oh," Connor replies. "Not really. Not anymore."

"Do you think we really send the soul of everyone we kill to Him?"

Connor put the gun down and looked, really looked, at his brother. "I think we do," he replied after a moment. "If they have souls, evil scumbags, I think they're sent for judgment."

Murphy looked unconvinced. "What if we're wrong?"

Connor picked the gun up again. "Then our souls will be called on it when we die."

_60. Weary_

"I'm too old for this," the Chief sighed as he settled his weary bones into a chair.

Much had changed lately. They'd brought in that FBI guy, Smecker, and look where it had gotten them – three of his detectives were now neck-deep in whatever the hell was going on with those Saints. The Chief agreed – the guys were killing the scum of the earth, so why not let them do it for a while? – but now, his detectives were involved, and the only way to let them do it was to pretend he didn't know.

"Too old," he muttered again.

* * *

I'm hoping to have the rest of this poisted within a week :) If you're still reading (or new to the story) please leave me a review to let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

_61. Angel_

They know of angels.

There is the Angel of Grace, messenger of forgiveness and love from Him. The Angel of Mercy, with wings large enough to enfold and forgive. The Angel of Protection, of Love, of Forgiveness.

There are other angels, too. The Angel of Destruction, who brings the fall. The Angel of Judgment, of Justice. The Angel of Death.

In their line of work, they have seen all. They have taken the role of each. Their prayer is fervent: when this is all over, may the Angel sent to take them be one of the former, not the latter.

_62. Tradition_

Connor is snoring on the couch when Murphy walks in. Strains of music are coming from the television, and Murphy snorts as he realizes that Connor fell asleep watching _The Sound of Music._

"Hell of a tradition," he said under his breath, turning off the television. "Falling asleep to old movies with irritating soundtracks."

Connor stirred and Murphy stopped talking, pulling a blanket over his brother's still form.

--

The next morning, Connor wakes whistling a peppy song. He's not sure what it is or where he heard it, but it's stuck in his head for hours.

Murphy just smiles.

_63. Stick_

They've been at McGinty's for only an hour when they decide it's time to go.

"Don't g-g-g-go yet, boys," Doc says, almost begging. "Have another. On the h-h-house."

Murphy shakes his head. "Can't stick around this time, Doc. We shouldn't've even come, but we wanted to let you know we were fine."

"Alive," Connor amended with a lopsided grin.

"Anyway, we have to get back out of Boston," Murphy said. "It was good to see you, Doc."

"You too," Doc said helplessly, sadly, as they walked from the bar.

He didn't think he'd ever see Connor and Murphy McManus again.

_64. Fight_

They fight constantly after leaving Boston. With each other. With Da. With themselves.

_Is this the right thing? Will we be forgiven? Should Da be here at his age? How can we let Ma know we're okay? How long will Smecker help us?_

Da has all the answers. Yes, yes, yes, we can't, forever. If God wills it.

They can't fight with that, with what God wills.

Murphy wonders if this is God's will or Da's, but when he speculates aloud to Connor while Da is out, Connor scowls and they fight again, so Murphy keeps his thoughts to himself.

_65. Miniature_

"I didn't want you to get a huge fucken tub of ice cream," Connor began, "but this is not enough. It's tiny. It's a miniature ice cream."

"Go to the store yourself next time," Murphy shot back. "Get your own fucken ice cream."

"But you were already _going_," Connor almost whined. Murphy just stared at him.

"Fine," Connor grumbled, getting to his feet and chucking the tiny ice cream at Murphy. "But I'm not getting you those minty things you love."

Murphy waved a small green paper package in Connor's direction. "Don't care," he said, and opened his own treat.

_66. Plenty_

There are reasons that they do this, and there are reasons that they think they should stop doing this. There are plenty of reasons for both sides.

On the one hand they have God's orders, which weigh heavily. On the other, they lost Da a few years ago. They are doing what they feel is right, but Smecker can no longer help them. They are cleansing the world of its darkest denizens, but they miss Ireland and Ma and being out in public without worrying for cover.

They no know other work.

In the end, this is the deciding factor.

_67. Break_

Connor felt his forearm break against the brick wall behind him. He hissed in pain, but gave no other outward sign.

He saw Murphy, silently making his way down the alley, and saw his attacker's face turning towards his brother.

Connor spat in the man's face. "That all you've got, aye?"

The man gave an angry yell and drew back to punch Connor's injured forearm. This time Connor let out a gasp. The man grinned sadistically.

"I've got more," he taunted.

"You'll never get to share it. Shame," Murphy said from behind the man, and shot him in the head.

_68. Shoulder_

Connor's shoulder drove into Murphy's stomach, and all of Murphy's breath rushed out as he flew backwards.

:Stay down," Connor hissed, freezing on top of his twin. Murphy could hear the footsteps, slow and deliberate, searching the warehouse thoroughly.

He shoved Connor off of him and drew his gun. He peered through the slats in front of him, aiming.

Murphy heard the click and pop behind him and spun to see Connor fall, lifeless. He aimed his gun at their assailant and pulled the trigger, but the other man was faster, and Murphy felt searing pain.

Then he felt nothing.

_69. Never_

Murphy's not sure what to do, not used to being in a situation where he has to make this kind of choice.

"Go," Connor wheezes, and Murphy is torn. Leave? Can he do it?

"_Go_," Connor says again, more urgent this time, and Murphy makes the hard decision. He grabs Connor, hoists him up. It feels eerily familiar, and flashes of flying toilets flicker through his memory. He pulls Connor up and over his shoulder and walks away as quickly as possible.

"Go without me," Connor tries to tell him, and Murphy shakes his head.

"Never without you," Murphy says.

_70. Professional_

They're very professional about their job. They have to be, or they'll go insane thinking about what they do.

They have marks, not victims, though those they kill have victims and are proud of it. They have tools, not guns, because every profession has its own tools.

They have casualties, and they have no nice word for that. Rocco was first, then Da, then Smecker. Greenly wouldn't talk to them, now, and Dolly had retired last year, and Duffy has disappeared. He is feared dead too. They blamed themselves for that, too.

They remain professional so they can go on.


	8. Chapter 8

_71. Test_

They stare at Duffy, and he can feel a bead of sweat trickle down his back. They can't see it, but Duffy gets the feeling that they know.

It's some sort of test, he thinks. There was a leak and their names were released and now every police officer on the Eastern seaboard has their names, their pictures, their life stories. Their passports are flagged. They're stuck, and they want to know _who it was_.

Duffy would be terrified if the leak had been him. But it's not, so he looks them both straight in the eyes.

"It wasn't me."

_72. Fashion_

They're as undercover as they can be, which is ironic, because they're sitting in lawn chairs on a beach. Their mark is stretched out on a towel with his girl-of-the-month, ten yards away. She's flipping through a fashion magazine. He is sleeping.

They decide that she knows nothing, is innocent. He will be the only mark this time. No need to kill her.

When they pick the lock on the door later that night, they're very surprised that it's her leveling a gun at them. He is behind her, holding another gun, almost lazily.

Two marks, then. They kill both.

_73. Power_

The lights flickered once, twice, then died.

"Power went out," Connor groaned, throwing the remote control at the television. "_Bulletproof Monk_ was on and the power went out."

"Connor," Murphy asked slowly. "How many times have you seen that movie?"

"What, like you haven't seen your favorite movie a bunch of times?"

"How many times?" Murphy repeated. "This month?"

Connor refused to meet his eyes. "A couple."

"Just quote it to yourself," Murphy said. "I know you can."

"Why would you think I'd be able to do that?"

Murphy looked at him and smirked. "I've heard you do it before."

_74. Complete_

This was a total disaster.

From start to finish, the planning had been meticulous. Everything was laid out perfectly; nothing was left un-thought.

But now, now, Connor was laying on the floor and he wasn't moving, and Murphy was having trouble getting to him, and everything _hurt so much_ and Connor wasn't breathing, wasn't making his heart beat. Murphy wanted to help, but he was tired, so tired, so maybe he could just rest for a minute and then remind Connor to live again.

Murphy slumped over his brother's body and closed his eyes.

The Saints' mission was finally complete.

_75. Club_

Their guns had been taken when they were captured, and they were tied up on opposite sides of the basement. Murphy was trying violently to free himself; Connor was trying too, but more methodically.

"I am going to club these men to death with my shoe," growled Murphy as he finally freed a hand. He then made quick work of the other hand and turned to Connor, who had just freed himself from his own bonds.

True to his word, when the men returned to the basement shortly thereafter, Murphy ran at them, howling, holding a boot in each hand.

_76. Pay_

Rocco had always been their friend. From the moment they moved into their shabby flat in South Boston, Rocco had always been there, and he'd been friendly, open, showing them around their new neighborhood. Taking them to McGinty's. Passing along that they needed help at the meat packing plant. Had always just been a good guy.

And now he was dead.

Yakavetta had just walked in and shot him, without even seeming to realize what he was doing. It was simple to him, but he had taken their _friend_.

Yakavetta would pay. Eye for an eye, life for a life.

_77. Ghost_

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Dolly said, and Duffy jumped. It was late, they were tired, and he just wanted to go home.

"No, it's just-"

"Wondering if we did the right thing."

Duffy blinked. Dolly, being perceptive? This was… new. Unsettling.

"Yes," he said cautiously, really looking at the other man. Seeing, for the first time, the shadows he hadn't expected, the weight on Dolly, too. It was taking a toll on all of them, even Greenly.

"We did," Dolly said simply, and walked away. Duffy wasn't sure why, but he suddenly felt a little bit better.

_78. Rings_

"But why would you do that to a perfectly good onion?" Rocco looked horrified.

Murphy continued to crunch down on his onion rings. "They're delicious, Roc. Try them."

Rocco shook his head vehemently. "I like 'em raw, man, on a burger. Those are dead. Dead onions."

"_Delicious_ dead onions," Connor countered, reaching over the table to grab one from the basket. He dipped it in ranch dressing and bit into it.

"Sacrilege," Rocco muttered, dipping his cheese fries in ketchup. "Poor onions. That's just disgusting."

"You should talk," Murphy retorted.

The three looked at each other and burst out laughing.

_79. Piano_

Connor had always loved playing the piano.

He first played when he was seven; they had visited one of Ma's friends, and she'd had a beat-up piano in the kitchen. Connor had sat down and plunked out the melody to Parting Glass. He'd visited Mrs. Connelly often, doing odd jobs around her house for the chance to play the piano for a little while. Somewhere along the line, he'd gotten good at it.

Now he plays to remember green fields and being young and laughter and lilting voices. He plays to forget where he is and what he has become.

_80. French_

French fries spilled over the table as Connor reached to smack Murphy's head. He frowned at the smaller man. "Insult _and_ injury," he moaned. "You're rude to me, then you make me spill my dinner."

"The dinner thing was not my fault, you clumsy oaf," Murphy responded, making no effort to deny the first claim.

"Oh, aye, I _wanted_ to spill French fries everywhere. It must be my fault!"

Murphy rolled his eyes. "They're not everywhere," he pointed out. He reached to grab a fry off the table, swirled it in ketchup, and took a bite. "They're still tasty, too."


	9. Chapter 9

I reposted the first and third chapters, as their formatting was all hinky. Last chapter up later tonight or tomorrow.

* * *

_81. Staff_

There was a staff party at the plant. Connor wanted to go; Murphy did not.

"Go without me," he said, sitting defiantly on the couch, knowing that Connor wouldn't leave him alone.

"Come on, Murph, just for a little bit," Connor pleaded.

"No," Murphy said stubbornly, resisting the urge to cross his arms.

"An hour," Connor bargained. "Then we'll go to McGinty's."

The lure of beer proved a strong temptation. "An hour, no more, then McGinty's," Murphy confirmed.

Connor smiled. "It could be fun, y'know," he said. "You might love it."

"Or not," Murphy muttered, but he got his coat.

_82. Rust_

_Blood tastes like rust_ and _it hurts_ and _what the fuck_ were the thoughts in Connor's head when he awoke (came to?) in his own bed with Ma standing over him. Her worried look was replaced by an angry scowl as his eyes opened.

"Thought ye'd never wake up, for a bit," she huffed, then bustled across the room to Murphy's still form.

"What…"

"Ye beat the shite out of Aidan Colebar, that's what," ma replied, frustration barely masking pride.

"Had it coming," Murphy said drowsily. Connor was relieved to hear his voice.

Ma snickered now. "Aidan looks much worse."

_83. Glow_

The city seemed to glow at night.

Connor stared out the window, wishing that they could go out, could grab a pint at a bar, maybe talk to someone other than each other. Those days are behind them; they are wanted, now, on the run, never to return to a normal life. They have only each other for company, for fighting, for bandaging, for protecting, for protection.

The city pulsed with life, but they could never again partake of it. Connor sighed. He missed their old life more than Murphy seemed to, more than he'd ever admit. He missed everything.

_84. Apple_

The scent of fruit was overpowering.

"What the fuck?" Connor muttered as he walked into the flat. Murphy was just coming out of the bathroom, hair dripping wet.

"Why does it smell like–" Connor stopped and sniffed cautiously in Murphy's direction. "Why do you smell like an apple?"

Murphy stopped walking and held his hand to his face and inhaled. "I do not."

"You smell like a woman," Connor advised, then walked past him into the bathroom. He returned a moment later holding a bottle of green gel.

"Last time I'm sending you out for shampoo," Connor said, laughing.

_85. Gummy bears_

It's a rare day in the McManus household.

Ma has taken them out of school and packed them into their neighbor's car, and they are downtown, at the theater. They are going to see a film, a real film, in a theater, and they are each allowed to get a snack.

Connor peruses his selections, looking for the perfect treat, but Murphy knows exactly what he's spending his quarter on.

"Gummy bears, please," he says to the woman behind the candy stand. She smiles down at his gap-toothed grin and hands him a package.

Murphy's smile could light the theater.

_86. Tomato_

All Connor wants when he's sick is tomato soup. It reminds him of home of being a child, of Ma and Ireland.

Murphy's the same; he wants nothing more than apple juice. A cool cup of apple juice could make him perk up like no medicine had ever been able to do.

When they both caught the flu, Doc went to the flat with a bag from the grocer. He warmed the soup on the stove and chilled the juice in the refrigerator.

The smiles he received in return were worth much more than the four dollars' worth of food.

_87. Snap_

"I can't do it," Murphy whined. "I tried, Ma, I can't do it and Connor can!"

"That's 'cause I'm better than you, Murph," Connor replied smartly.

Annabelle swatted at Connor before turning to Murphy. "Can't do what, now?"

"Can't do this." Connor leaned over gleefully and – right in front of Murphy's face – snapped his fingers. Murphy darted his head forward, trying to bite the wriggling fingers.

Annabelle smiled, then leaned over to whisper something into Murphy's ear. He began to giggle as she spoke, then laughed aloud as he turned to his brother.

"I can't snap, but _you_ can't whistle!"

_88. Flashlight_

They brought the flashlight with them. Just in case. They weren't scared, but… a flashlight seemed like a good thing to bring to a haunted house.

Connor and Murphy snuck in through the back window. They knew that the ghost lived upstairs, in the north bedroom, and they carefully made their way up the stairs and down the hallway.

"That's the room," Murphy whispered, nudging Connor. Connor nodded and they walked forward.

The door creaked open without them even touching it and, wide-eyed, they peered inside.

They left the flashlight on the floor as they ran, terrified, from the house.

_89. Bustle_

Connor slips, unnoticed, through the crowd. It's a busy day, after all, and one lone man in average clothing is invisible in the hustle and bustle of a Saturday at the grocer's.

He wanders up and down the aisles, trying to be inconspicuous as he followed his mark. The woman was doing her shopping with sticky fingers, but that wasn't her worst offense. She ran a ring of drug smuggling and prostitution.

She walked out of the store, to her car, loaded the trunk with her purchases. She got in her car and drove off. She didn't make it home.

_90. Aluminum_

Sometimes they have ridiculous arguments just to pass the time.

Aluminum or aluminium? Murphy prefers the first, because it's more to-the-point, but Connor likes the extra syllable. It's the same with herb: to pronounce the 'h' or not?

Sometimes they have serious arguments just to pass the time.

Could we have saved Rocco? They usually end up agreeing on this. No. But we could've tried harder. Could we have saved Da? They also agree here. No. By the end, Da didn't even want to be saved.

Sometimes, they pass the time silently. It's easier not to think of some things.


	10. Chapter 10

This is the last chapter.

* * *

_91. Shroud_

It's just a shell, really, and they know that Da isn't in there. It's still hard to leave him behind.

They give him the pennies, they pray their hardest for his soul. They pull the clean white sheet over him – the best shroud they could find given the circumstances.

"How long?" Murphy asks Connor quietly. _Depth of faith_ rings through Connor's head, but he bites his lip to keep it from spilling out.

They pour the gasoline and burn the body in the abandoned office building, the entire place quickly going up in flames.

Just another casualty in the war.

_92. Shrug_

Doc is polishing glasses behind the bar when they walk in.

"B-b-b-boys!" Doc exclaims. The twins grin at him.

"I know it's after closing, Doc, but…" A smile on Connor's lips, a shrug on his shoulders. "Can we get one?"

Doc pulls two beers and sets them in front of the men. He grabs a bottled water for himself.

"Listen, Doc…" Murphy pauses and a look slides between them. He reaches into his coat and pulls out an envelope, sealed and addressed and stamped. "If you ever hear of anything happening to us, can you put this in the post?"

_93. Blanket_

The blanket is already old when the twins get it at the age of three days.

It was made for their mother by her mother, and Annabelle knows that she will have no daughter is her life, with Padraig gone and these two born boys. It's red and orange and purple, quilted, warm and lovely though it's worn through in places.

She pulls it from its spot in the top of the hall closet and tucks it around her two baby boys.

Years later, when Connor loves orange and Murphy is partial to red, Annabelle smiles and nobody knows why.

_94. Cavern_

The cavern is small and damp and the perfect place for them to make their fortress.

The two small boys bring scraps of colored cloth, old tires, bits of wood, anything they can salvage to the cavern, and before long they consider it a castle.

"This is the best place in the world," Murphy exclaims happily as they hang coloring book pages on the wall. Murphy's red drawing of Uncle Sibeal's store is near his spot.

"The best," Connor agrees, his favorite drawing – an orange bird eating an orange – over his sitting space.

"Our castle is complete," Murphy pronounces gleefully.

_95. Core_

It shook Annabelle McManus to the core when she got the letter.

_I'm sorry to tell you this. Your sons and husband were killed last Friday morning. No matter what you hear, they were good men and died fighting the good fight._

No signature. No explanation. Padraig was out of jail? She hadn't known that.

And now the news came, the other news, that they were terrorists. Killing people.

She got their bodies back, though. She held her own service; nobody would associate with her now.

Pennies in the eyes. A prayer for each. Annabelle knew exactly what to do.

_96. Seaweed_

"What are you eating?"

Dolly was aghast as he looked at Smecker's dinner. Three little sushi rolls sat on the plate; the fourth was raised halfway to his mouth by a pair of chopsticks.

"It's sushi, Dolly," Smecker said, raising one eyebrow. "What does it look like?"

"You _eat_ that stuff?" Dolly looked sickened.

"Well, you don't play football with it." Smecker looked amused. He raised the chopsticks.

Dolly was now edging away from the door to Smecker's office. "Isn't it, like, seaweed and raw fish?"

Smecker thought for a moment. "And rice," he finally agreed. "Don't forget the rice."

_97. Jam_

Murphy licks the jam from his fingers, totally satisfied. Connor looks at him, disgusted.

"What are ye, four?" he mutters. Murphy just glares.

The sandwich is of epic proportions: four slice of bread, layered with peanut butter and strawberry jam and cream cheese and grape jam and he's pretty sure he remembers putting something else is there, but he's not sure what. Bananas?

Murphy picks up his sandwich, compresses all of the layers, and bites. A blissful smile crosses his face. Definitely bananas.

Connor shudders. _Who could eat that shite?_ he wonders as he bites into his own pickle-and-cheese sandwich.

_98. Blast_

Murphy's dreams are of Ireland. He recalls running through their small house, having a blast as Ma screamed out the back door for them to _get yer asses back here_ and just being a child. He wakes rested in the morning.

Connor dreams about murder, about blackness, about blood and war and God and prayers that are prayed over people they know, over himself and his brother and friends. He relives Rocco's death, every injury they've ever had, everything that could ever go wrong in the future. He wakes haunted.

Padraig doesn't dream anymore. He wakes and sleeps the same.

_99. Carbon_

Annabelle and Padraig had expected them to be carbon copies of each other. No, though; Murphy was smaller, had darker features. He took after Paddy. Connor had fairer coloring, was slightly larger, and had more of Annabelle in him.

They were easy to tell apart, at least, Annabelle thought as she stared at her sleeping infants in their tiny crib.

Padraig came in, coat on, bag at his side. "You know what to tell them."

She didn't look at him. "Yes."

He paused as he reached the door. "This was never a choice, Annabelle."

Annabelle didn't turn as he left.

_100. Centric_

In the end, everything comes full circle.

Father and sons stand in a circle, each pointing a gun at the others, unsure of who they can believe. One of them is the betrayer, two the betrayed; they all act surprised. It no longer matters which one it was. The trust that they had shared was destroyed.

It's centric, pulling everything to a close. It seems a fitting end, really, when six triggers are pulled almost simultaneously and three men drop, lifeless, to the ground. Years of their work have made all three nearly perfect shots.

It is finally, finally over.

* * *

It is, indeed, finally over. Thanks to any and everyone who has stuck with this story and its incredibly long hiatus; I sincerely apologise for that. I also thank my reviewers, the few of you that there were :)

I may return to BDSfic at a later date; for now, however, I'm shipping other fandoms (mainly NCIS) and writing exclusively there. Feel free to join me in my delusions in other realms.

A thousand thanks again, and I hope you thoroughly enjoyed the story... well stories!

-Kay


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